


Christmas Playlist

by LonghornLetters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Music, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, I've tried my hand at angst...we'll see how this goes, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 10:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5537273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonghornLetters/pseuds/LonghornLetters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, John, and Greg have all spent Christmas alone.  They've come to the conclusion that Christmas is better together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Playlist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kestrel337](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/gifts).



> These vignettes all suggested themselves to me while I was listening to Michael Buble's Christmas album. They're not *strictly* chronological, but the first three are building up to the last one. 
> 
> This is a Christmas gift for one of the loveliest people I know, in fandom or out. Kestrel, I hope you enjoy. Have a very happy holiday.

**If the Fates Allow**

 

The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor and the sibilant rush of oxygen were not the sounds Greg Lestrade wanted to hear as the clock on the bedside table turned silently past midnight on Christmas Eve.  “You absolute berk,” he whispered softly to the emaciated figure lying in the bed next to where he sat.

Greg picked up the long, slender hand laying on top of the blankets.  “I was supposed to be out with the wife, you know,” he said around a smile, staring at the pale hand clasped between both his tanned ones.  He huffed a small laugh, “She says I spend too much time working as it is.”  He glanced up at the unresponsive face, “She’s probably right too, but I can’t imagine how much more it’d be without you.  I could bring you in on more if you didn’t keep getting yourself into this mess.”  

The heart monitor’s metronomic beep was his only reply.  Greg squeezed the fingers in his grasp one more time before he laid them back down on the blanket.  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes against the sudden sharp prickle of tears at the backs of his eyes, “You’ve got to stop doing this.  You...you’re wearing me out, sunshine.”  

A soft cough snapped Greg’s head up.  “I’m exhausted.”

Greg smiled sadly at Sherlock’s wan expression, “I’m sure.  When I picked you up, your heart was going like a hummingbird.  How’re you feeling otherwise?”

Sherlock coughed again and wriggled down further under the blanket until the patches attached to his heart monitor were the only part of his chest peeking over the covers, “I’ll live.”  Sherlock paused, watching his fingers as they picked at a loose thread on his blanket.  “I think...I think I’m going to go away for a while.  Take a bit of a break from the city.  Give you some space to settle into this new promotion.  A friend of mine out in the country’s got a bit of a thing he’d like me to look into.”

Greg, who knew good and well how much Sherlock loved living in London, heard everything Sherlock wasn’t saying as loudly as if he’d shouted it.  “Sure, if that’s what you want,” he conceded, unwilling to make Sherlock’s decisions for him.  

“Mmm, yes.  I think a bit of time away would be good.  Refresh and reset,” Sherlock mused as if Greg hadn’t spoken.  He smiled at Greg, “Think of it as my Christmas gift to you.”

“Don’t be that way,” Greg protested, suddenly hating the idea.

Sherlock just shook his head, “We’ll be back together eventually.”

“If the fates allow,” Greg murmured, hating himself more for falling back on a trite quote.

Sherlock smiled, “Oh, I’m sure they will.”

 

**I’ll Have a Blue Christmas**

 

“Johnny Boy, you coming over tonight?”

John turned to shoot a smile and a nod in the direction of the shout before he continued on to the shift he was already barely on time for.

That night, John settled himself into a rickety folding chair in one of the American’s barracks, more than ready to let Jim Beam erase his hellish day.  Dr. William Don’t-Call-Me-Hawkeye Pierce passed over a plastic mess cup with a generous shot of Kentucky bourbon in it before he flopped down in the other chair.  “Okay, so talk, Johnny.  You look like shit warmed over.”

John made a face at the metaphor, then sighed.  He stared at the cup as he rolled it between his palms and tried to find the least offensive place to start, “It’s my, well, um, back home, I’ve got this...”

Pierce put a hand on John’s wrist to stop his nervous stammering and smiled when John looked up to meet his eyes, “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell only applies to me, you know.”

John quirked his lips into a wry smile, “I guess so.”  He took a healthy swallow of his drink and sighed again, “What about this?”  He held out the letter he’d gotten a few weeks ago to let Pierce look at it.  “We were supposed to have a call tomorrow to discuss it.”

Pierce’s frown deepened as he read the page of rather rambling writing asking for something John didn’t think he was willing or even able to give.  “Johnny, I don’t…” he paused and tried again, “He wants an open relationship?  This is kind of a big deal to put into a letter.”

John nodded, “I know.”

“What do you, I mean, do you want to talk about this?”  He asked, passing the letter back.

Another nod, “Yeah.  I think I’ve made the right decision, but…” John trailed off, unsure where he’d planned on going with that thought.

“It’d be hard,” Pierce finished for him.  “Christ almighty, John.”

John nodded, “It...it’s not like I’d be opposed, but, well, with him, I’m not sure.”

Pierce leaned forward until he caught John’s eye, “Something like that is nothing when the trust’s not there.”

John nodded as he refolded the letter.  He finally broke Pierce’s gaze to watch his thumbnail as he traced it down the crease, “I...I ended it.”

Pierce sat back in his chair and blinked, “Oh...um…”

“I wanted to,” John rushed to assure him, “It’s not this.  Well, not just this.  I didn’t really trust him when I got my orders, and the longer I’ve been gone, the more I think he’s just been looking for an out, you know?”

Pierce grabbed the bottle off his footlocker and refilled their cups, “Get out before you get hurt?”

“Something like that,” John said with a huff of laughter.

“Well, if that’s the case, there’s only one thing to do,” he said, clicking their cups together in a parody of a toast.  “Get drunk and sing old country.”

John laughed and threw back the shot Pierce had just poured for him, “Only if you promise to play that wretched Elvis Christmas album you know all the words to.”

“Anything for you, Johnny Boy.”

 

**I Won’t Even Wish for Snow**

 

Sherlock closed the door on his current motel room and dropped his things before he sank down to the floor and buried his head in his arms.  Exhaustion prickled at the backs of his eyes and dragged his shoulders forward into a defeated hunch.  He let himself sit and stew in his misery for exactly five minutes then he forced himself back to his feet and made for the shower.

Thirty minutes later, he had bathed, shaved, and reemerged to dig through the Walmart bags he’d abandoned by the door.  He pulled on the pyjama pants he’d picked up to replace the pair he’d had to abandon two cities ago in the rush that came with being discovered.  He sighed at the garish blue and orange Bears logo printed on them as he pulled them on, but didn’t stew too long.  Even though they were brand new, they were already soft enough to remind him of late mornings drinking Mrs. Hudson’s tea and flipping idly through the papers.

Dressed, he pulled his new burner phone out of its packaging and popped in a clean SIM card and powered it up.  He transferred everything important to the new handset then took the old one out into the parking lot and crushed it beneath the wheels of the rust bucket car he’d picked up in Texas for a fistfull of cash and a snarled assurance that he would keep their gun running operation quiet.  Sherlock kicked the pieces of his old phone in different directions across the parking lot and retreated to his room, dialing as he walked.  

It only took two rings for him to get an answer, “Do you have any idea what time it is over here?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he threw the deadbolt and slid the security chain into its slot, “The height of the breakfast hour I’m sure, brother mine.”  He considered the door for another moment then picked up the rickety chair from next to the bed and jammed it under the door handle.

“Quite,” Mycroft’s smooth voice crackled slightly over the international connection.  “How are you progressing?”

“Adequately,” Sherlock flopped down on the bed.  He traced the pattern of the quilting on the scratchy bedspread and thought about everything he’d done and everything he still had to do.  “I think I need to abandon this line of inquiry.  Results are more likely elsewhere.”

Mycroft hesitated the barest fraction of a second before he responded, “Ideas?  Or do you need to be put on a particular scent?”

Sherlock took a deep breath.  He’d been saving the worst for last.  Childish really; he should have done it first.  “I’ll get a flight tomorrow.  I’ll use it to brush up on Cyrillic-based languages.”

Mycroft’s pause lasted much longer this time.  Sherlock could practically hear the emotion on the other end of the line, “You know this part will involve much deeper cover.  I cannot guarantee any sort of intervention or extraction should things, ah, go awry.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, “I know.  If I don’t,” Sherlock took a shuddering breath, “If I can’t…” he trailed off, overwhelmed.  He took another juddering breath and tried again, “Just...just don’t let John and Greg hear anything if the worst should happen.”

“I wouldn’t,” Mycroft promised.  “This separation has been hard on all of you.  I would never knowingly compound anyone’s suffering.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured.  “I’m going to go.  I’m tired.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said softly.

Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear to hang up when he heard Mycroft’s voice tinny and far away through the speaker, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock sucked in a breath, “Yes?”

“Happy Christmas, little brother.”

Sherlock smiled in spite of himself, “Happy Christmas, brother mine.”  He ended the call and let the phone drop to the bed.  He closed his eyes, willing the sharp sting of tears away, and breathed deep and slow until he felt the overwhelming rush of homesickness recede.

He rolled over on the bed and plugged in the new phone and flipped through the apps until he found the camera roll.  He pulled up the first, an image of Greg Lestrade he’d snapped fresh off a court appearance.  He was laughing at the ground, but he had caught the camera out of the corner of his eye, making him look pleased with himself and just a little bit flirty.  He smiled and flipped to the other picture.  John’s eyes sparkled as he quirked a thin smile at Sherlock; like they were sharing a private joke.  

Sherlock set the phone back down on the duvet and clicked off the bedside lamp.  In the dark, he closed his eyes and silently wished for the only things he couldn’t have.

 

**Santa Baby**

 

“Are all of these lit?” John asked, turning around from the mantel to catch Greg’s eye.

Greg glanced up from where he was untangling the other string of lights on the coffee table, “Umm...I think so, yeah.”  

Greg turned back to the snarl of fairy lights in front of him and picked at them for a few more minutes before the clatter of glass against wood made John turn around again.  “Why are we doing this?” he asked, making John whip his head around.  “We don’t even know when Sherlock’s coming home.  He could be gone until close to the new year, according to him.”

John turned back to the string of lights he was still hanging over the mantel and shrugged, “I know, but even if he’s not here, we’re still here.  The two of us can have a nice Christmas, can’t we?”

Greg stood up and walked around the coffee table, coming to lean against the edge of the fireplace, “Yeah, yeah, you’re right.”  He smiled abashedly down at the ground, “We’ve just been through so much to get here, I wanted to be selfish, at least one year.”

John descended the stepladder and planted a swift kiss on Greg’s lips, “Of course.”  He snatched up the remote to the iPod dock from off the end table and pressed play, “But since you’re stuck with me, might as well make the most of it?”

As the Christmas playlist John had made last year started, Greg swept him up in an embrace, “Only if you promise not to tell Sherlock we slow dance like we’re teenagers.”

John nodded against Greg’s shoulder, “Secret’s safe with me.”  

They turned slowly in the sitting room as a smooth cover of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” playing quietly on the stereo, but Greg pulled away as the song ended.  “Can we just do this much?” he asked, “I think this is about all I’ve got in me.”

John settled on the couch, pulling Greg with him, “Sure.  I think I wanted to do this to distract myself as much as you.  You’re absolutely right, it’s hard to not--”

John trailed off when the next song came on, “Jesus, I haven’t heard this song since I was deployed.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard it,” Greg said, shaking his head, “What’s so special about it?”

“Not much,” John conceded.  He picked up his phone from the coffee table and tapped out a quick text, “Good for Christmas moping, though.”  

Greg nodded and leaned his head against John’s shoulder and listened to him sing softly along with the music.  John kept singing as the next song started too, and Greg smiled, “I’d wish for snow,” he murmured, “I love sledding.”

John laughed and squeezed Greg tighter.  Greg squeezed him back and settled more solidly against John’s side.  He felt his eyelids drooping, and rather than fight it, he let the warmth of the room and the hum of John’s voice carry him under.  John lowered the volume on the stereo, and dragged the afghan off the back of the sofa over them then leaned his head back against the headrest.  The flat seemed so quiet without all three of them, and since John didn’t see the point in waking Greg up, he snuggled down further under the blanket and closed his eyes.

John swam up to consciousness to the sound of the iPod still playing quietly to itself and a massive crick in his neck.  He nudged Greg, “D’you want to stay out here or go to bed?”

“Mmm?” Greg grunted, not opening his eyes, “Bed?”  John nodded.  Greg shifted against his shoulder, “Fine, but get off my leg.”

John shook his head, “ 'M not on your leg.”

Greg glanced down, “Sherlock?” he gasped, jiggling the leg Sherlock was collapsed against, “When did you get in?”

Sherlock stirred from his position on the floor, “Quite late.  Or early.  I lose track of time when I take the Eurostar.”

“Yes, but we thought you’d be working,” Greg persisted, stubbornly refusing to believe their good luck.

“I’d nearly finished when I got John’s text, so I hurried it along and just came home,” Sherlock answered.

“Text?” Greg asked.

John smiled, blushing a little, “I may have suggested we were having a bit of a blue Christmas without him.”

“God, really?” Greg’s dazzling smile belied his affronted tone, “We can get along when you’re off working, you know.”

Sherlock shrugged, “You didn’t have to.”

John squeezed Greg’s shoulder and bent to give Sherlock a hand to stand, “Why don’t you two have a proper lie down and I’ll see about some coffee.”

Sherlock eyed the couch, “Would you mind if we stayed out here?  I haven’t been home that long, and I’m--”

Greg cut him off with a kiss, “Of course we can, sunshine.”  He sprawled back on the sofa and smiled, “Come have a lie down with me.”

Sherlock curled himself into the vee of Greg’s legs and was asleep against his chest almost immediately.  Greg wrapped the afghan around them and smiled up at John when he came back in from the kitchen.  

John stepped over Sherlock’s abandoned shoes and gave first Greg then Sherlock each a kiss, “We must have been awfully good this year to get something this big off our list.” 

Greg shifted his shoulders to intimate a shrug, “No less than we deserve.”  
Sherlock shifted against Greg’s chest and mumbled, “Yes, yes, Happy Christmas to all, now all should shut up.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all have a restful holiday season and a happy New Year.


End file.
